I just roll my eyes. I never know what to believe when it's coming out of Tommy's mouth.
"She's in about ten different pieces, partner. Scout's honor." He does a jacked-up Boy Scout salute then holds up the police tape for me to go underneath.
I nod in appreciation then pass a few more nods to some of the personnel I'm fond of, mingling in the front yard.
"Hacked up at every joint," he continues, "and at the neck. I mean, we're talking Mr. Potato Head type shit in there."
"Keep your voice down, you jackass." I roll my eyes as I pass through the doorway, the door itself hanging by one hinge. "It's been way too long of a day for that shit."
"Just speaking the truth, man. You'll see. She's like a human jigsaw puzzle." He laughs and slaps the back of his hand against my arm. "Like human Tetris." He laughs.
"Fuck off, man," I say, pulling away from him just as we come up on the body.
He wasn't lying. Not one fucking bit. There are two loaded up trash bags, each with shredded holes torn in the side. A trail of blood is smeared from the bags and tracked out into the hallway. Congealed fat, yellow and pungent, protrudes from the openings, along with bits of mangled, bloody flesh. I make out a hand too, purplish-blue fingers poking out from beneath the sludgy mess.
I step back, taking a much needed breath of fresh air from the other room, then go back in. Tommy stands in the corner of the room with two medical examiners, a stupid toothy smile on his face. I approach one of the bags and crouch, making sure to breathe only through my mouth, though I worry about what particles I'm picking up that way too. The thought turns my stomach. I pull a pen from my pocket and use the end of it to tug the bag open wider.
I wish I hadn't. The mostly untarnished face of a young brunette stares back at me. Her dead eyes bulge a bit from her head, skin and veins mushrooming from her severed neck, but otherwise, she looks like she probably had before all this happened to her… with a little rigor mortis added in the mix.
And she looks like my sister.
From the dark curls matted to her head with blood, to the blue-gray tint of her eyes, she's a spitting image of Joanna. And it reminds me of that day two years ago, when I found my sister in three pieces in a house not far from here. She had the same knifed-out Xs on her breasts that I'm sure to find on this young lady, just as I've found on many of the other victims along the way.
I close my eyes, my pulse quickening. My stomach lurches. My thoughts are owned by my sister, back when she was still that smiling, carefree girl, back before the drugs dried up all the life in her. When this monster got to her, she was just a shell of who she once was, but it hurt all the same.
If my parents were still alive, I would've surely gotten the blame somehow. You should've been there! Aren't you a cop?
It doesn't matter. I put the blame on myself anyway. I heap it onto my shoulders right along with the PTSD and alcoholism, along with the failed relationships and the thousands of little lies I've told myself over the years—and the ones I still do.
I stand abruptly, so quick a rush of blood leaves my brain and makes me stumble.
"Partner, you okay?" Tommy asks, putting a hand on my elbow to stabilize me.
"Y-yeah, I-I'm good." I look at him through clouded vision, blinking in an attempt to clear it. "You mind wrapping this up, Tommy? I've seen enough for today."
He gives me two good pats on the back as he leads me out of the room. "I got you, buddy. You definitely ain't looking so good."
"I'm all right. Just haven't eaten today yet." We reach the door, and I turn to face him. "I'm gonna go grab a bite and take some time to myself. You sure you're all right wrapping this up?"
"Too easy, partner. Too easy. Take your time. I'll start the paperwork on this shit." He jabs a thumb back toward the garbage bags now being carefully emptied by the examiners, their contents sorted out on a tarp.
"Thanks." I turn and head out the door, pulling a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, a pack I’ve held on to for when I catch my sister’s killer, but right about now, I just don’t fucking care. I need it.
I take off the cellophane wrapping, shake out a cigarette, and light it, taking the smoke deep into my lungs as a fall breeze whips past me. I let the smoke dance out of my lungs with a pleasing sigh. Six months I've held on to this pack. Six months since I had my last cigarette. The cigarette’s staleness does nothing to override the complete satisfaction I feel as a buzz carries through my body.